


Blackthorns & Bluebells

by Lazlisz



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Angst, Animagus Lily Evans Potter, BAMF Lily Evans Potter, BAMF Severus Snape, Book-Aged Characters, Canon Typical Violence/Death but spicier, Canonical Character Death (James), Chronic Pain, Creature Severus Snape, Cruciatus Curse Damage, Fix-It, Godfather Severus Snape, Good Severus Snape, Harry Doesn't Live With the Dursley's, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Knell Severus Snape, Lily Evans Potter & Severus Snape Friendship, Lily Evans Potter Lives, M/M, Married Severus Snape/Regulus Black, Mentions of Comatose Character, Mentor Severus Snape, Original Character(s), Original Magical Race, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Child Abuse, Powerful Lily Evans Potter, Powerful Regulus Black, Powerful Severus Snape, Redeemed Severus & Regulus, Regulus Black Lives, Scarred Severus Snape, Severitus, Severus Black - Freeform, Severus Snape Has a Heart, Severus Snape-centric, Severus Works With Dumbledore from the Beginning, Sirius Black doesn't go to Azkaban, Time Travel, Time Turner (Harry Potter), Trans Male Character, Trans Severus Snape, Trans character by trans author, Warnings per chapter in notes, Young Severus Snape
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2021-01-15
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:08:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28256679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lazlisz/pseuds/Lazlisz
Summary: Hermione trips and cracks the time turner when they head off to save Sirius. As she and Harry trip through the decades from the 60s to the 80s, they leave ripples in their wake that change the future as they know it, despite their efforts to the contrary. Who will help them return to their time, and when they get there will they like what they find?
Relationships: Harry Potter & Hermione Granger & Ronald Weasley, Harry Potter & Severus Snape, Hermione Granger & Severus Snape, Lily Evans Potter & Remus Lupin, Lily Evans Potter & Severus Snape, Lily Evans Potter & Severus Snape & Remus Lupin, Regulus Black & Severus Snape, Regulus Black & Sirius Black, Regulus Black/Severus Snape, Remus Lupin & Sirius Black, Severus Snape & Remus Lupin, background/mentioned Lily Evans Potter/James Potter
Comments: 28
Kudos: 105





	1. Prologue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CW for mild violence & blood, as well as mentions of past abuse

"Harry? Harry, we need to find--"  
  
"Wait!" Harry barks, throwing out a hand to stop her. "I don't...I don't think we're back in the 1990's," Harry never takes his eyes off the figures across the street, one who slams their way into the bar in a very familiar fashion. The hairs shorter, but....  
  
If this is who he thinks it is...  
  
"Come on."   
  
"What?!" Hermione hisses. "Harry, we're underaged and we don't even know what decade it is! Why do you want to go into a bar?!"   
  
"Because! I think that's Sirius!" He snarls, scowling at her.   
  
"Sirius...but..."  
  
"Maybe he can help us!"   
  
"Harry, last time wasn't enough?! The time before that?! Who knows how much damage we've already done!"  
  
"Maybe he can help us _fix_ it!" Harry goes to storm forward, across the street, but Hermione grabs his arm and yanks.   
  
"Harry, _please_! I just...don't want you to be disappointed. Last time..."  
  
Harry grits his teeth and tries to swallow down the nauseaus feeling that comes with their past...jumps. Seeing what his father did... and him, stupid, _stupid_ , messing with things--who knows what he changed, telling that slytherin kid to stand up for his friend. Really, he just needed someone to stop his Dad before he did anything more heinous than what he already had. He doesn't know what the first one was, four little girls sitting near an old tree, in a park. Two with pitch black hair and two that looked achingly familiar but he couldn't pin down _how._ Long fiery orange hair on one and mousey brown on the other, the only thing that made them look alike was the freckles.   
  
"It won't be like the last times," Harry states, firmly. "Come on, at the least we can ask someone the date or something." Harry shrugs her off and crosses the street.  
  
Hermione huffs, looking back and forth down the road as if in askance before giving up and following.  
  
The closer they get to the bar the better they can hear the commotion inside, shouting and banging and the smash of glass against wood. Hermione and Harry both flinch back as the door slams open and three figures spill out, one throwing the other to the asphalt with a nasty crack while the third follows behind them at a leisure pace. Harry's heart sinks in his chest when he realizes that the third isn't Sirius. Wearing a wool coat, with short curly hair and uncannily similar features--including Sirius' piercing, icy blue eyes-- but definitely not him. The second snarls and kicks the first person in the side, once, twice, and then grabs them by the lapels and jerking them up to look them in the eye. Harry can't make out either of their faces in the dark, just vague outlines. One is thinner, streamlined and small, wearing heavy black boots, a leather jacket, black trousers and what he assumes is a black shirt.   
  
"Tell me what I want to know, or I'll make you wish for something as sweet as death," The second one drawls, deep voice and a prominent accent that Harry can't put a place to but knows instinctively. Harry can see his freckled, scarred, and stained hands, the warm ochre of his skin standing out against the grey coat the man he's assaulting is wearing.  
  
Not a coat, Harry realizes in confusion, a _robe_. He's never seen wizards fight like this, but he can't deny that the bright, venom green light that sparks like static against the thinner mans damaged hands is definitely magic.   
  
The poor sod on the ground stammers pathetically, apparently unable to make words, and Harry shifts to get closer, trying to see his faces only to freeze as glass crunches underfoot.   
  
All three heads snap towards them and Harry feels himself chill as he realizes why that voice and accent were so familiar. Severus Snape stares back at him, ten years younger at least and with three long clawmarks gouged into his sallow face. One of his eyes is bled white, though it seems to move in time with the other.  
  
He flings the man he was interrogating back onto the ground and steps over him, looking over Harry and Hermione as if they'd make good potion ingredients. Wherever, or rather _whenever_ they are, Snape hasn't lost the uncanny ability to pick someone apart with his eyes. He...doesn't look too different, besides the scars and the eye. Snape's always held the title of "Youngest Hogwarts Professor," and Harry can't help but notice that he doesn't so much look _younger_ as he does look _healthier_. The bones of his face aren't as sharp, the crows feet around his eyes erased, and most of all he just. Doesn't look _tired._ He never would have realized how exhausted and run down their Snape looked, if he hadn't seen this one.   
  
"Who the fuck are you?" Harry can't help the way his mouth slackens at hearing his Professor, usually so straight laced and strict, _cursing._ More surprising is that it doesn't sound bizarre or awkward coming out of Snape's mouth, it just clicks with his accent, which, more prominent in the past as it is, Harry realizes is just the same as everyone in that run down town Dursley took them through when they were running from the letters. Harry remembers a dingy hotel and cold tinned tomatos on toast, and thinks that it must just be a coincidence. After all, Snape's a pureblood, right? He has to be, he's _Slytherin._ They're all pureblood.  
  
Hermione speaks before Harry can, caught on his discovery as he is, stammering out a small, baffled, "Professor?" Before she can stop herself.   
  
Meanwhile, the third man, the one that looks so much like Sirius, kicks the one on the ground lightly and says, "Go on now, and consider yourself lucky these two were around to save your skin."   
  
He doesn't question it, immediately scrambling up off the ground and taking off down the street.   
  
Snape raps his knuckles on the piece of scrap laying against the brick wall of the bar with a hollow clang, "Up, both of you." When neither move, he sneers and grabs Harry by his coat, dragging him up and out into the open. "Why did you call me Professor?" He directs this question at Hermione, who stood up indignantly when he dragged Harry out of the alley.   
  
"Wh-What?" Hermione squeaks, eyes wide. Her tight, frizzy curls sway around her face as she leans back away from him.  
  
"No one should know about that yet," Snape says, lowly, glancing between them as if their faces will betray some integral clue, "Let alone two children hiding in an alley."  
  
"F-Fruedian slip," Harry stammers, "You, you just look like..." he trails off when he sees the expression on Snape's scarred face. The man looks down at himself and then pins them both with a deadpan stare.   
  
"Don't. _Lie._ To me."  
  
"Sorry, kiddo, but Sev here's pretty hard to mistake for someone else," the other man says with a grin. "Something about the..." He rakes his fingers down his face in illustration.  
  
Harry grimaces, "W-Well, we, uh, we just--" he gulps as Snape whips his wand out of his sleeve and presses it between Harry's eyes.   
  
"Are you muggles? Or with the order? One of their children, maybe?"  
  
"It's a long story!" Hermione blurts out. "Please, listen to us, we--we're--" she fidgets with the chain around her neck, only to stumble back as the other mans blue eyes snag on the gesture.   
  
"Sev," he says, nudging his arm, "that's a time turner."  
  
***  
  
Hermione skates her fingers along a dusty bookshelf in the hallway with a frown. The floorboards are creaky, ancient, and a dark purple-brown color, covered in scratches and gouges. The stairs themselves are covered in a yellow moth-eaten runner, and she frowns at the dust covered muggle knicknacks, pausing in the hall to stare at the radio sitting splayed on the table, wires and components gutted and splayed out around it. An old tv with a cracked screen sits in front of a broken down, threadbare brown couch. Books are stacked everywhere, notebooks, old leather bound tomes, maps and parchment covered in so much cramped handwriting and scratched out diagrams they're nearly entirely black. Boxes full of files are stacked in the corner of the hallway, and a huge map is pinned up on one wall, covered in pins and notations. It's...not what she expected. "Is this your house?" She asks quietly, as Snape shucks off his coat and yanks his scarf off, hanging them both on a hook by the door. The taller man tosses his wool coat on the ancient couch and stalks off into another room.   
  
Snape hums absently, raking his mop of oily curls back out of his face and looking over his shoulder at them, before flicking his eyes away and towards the peeling yellowed wallpaper and dusty shelves. "What? No, no, this is..." he looks around with a grimace. "This is where I was raised." Harry shifts awkwardly, looking around the tiny, run down house, and exchanges a look with Hermione.   
  
"But...this is a muggle house," Harry says, confusion ringing clear in his voice as he follows Snape into the next room. A kitchen, dinky and cramped, similarly stacked with muggle odds and ends, papers, boxes, and books. The sink is empty and the chairs creak ominously when he and Hermione sit down around the scuffed up wooden table.   
  
Snape snorts, "Of course it is." When the both of them just stare at him he raises a brow. The blue eyed man slams two mugs down onto the table in front of them and then slinks around to lean against a yellowed, cracked window.   
  
"How many purebloods have you seen fight the muggle way?"   
  
Harry, recalling that fight between Malfoy and Mr. Weasley in second year, shrugs and says, "Just one, I suppose." The two adults share a significant look and then smirk.   
  
"Good to know Arthur's still got it, I suppose," the man says. "No, Sev's a half blood. Muggle father, but his Mother's from one of the oldest eastern european families on the continent." He sighs and fishes out a cigerette, patting his other pocket and realizing he must've left his lighter at the bar. "Shite, Sev, give me a light?"   
  
"There are children here, Regulus," Severus protests, narrowing his eyes at him. Regulus shrugs and gestures to the window, which he hikes open. Snape sighs and snaps his fingers, widening both Harry and Hermione's eyes as a green flame sparks to life at the end of the cigerette.   
  
"Thanks, love."  
  
Harry startles and Hermione looks between them in confusion.   
  
Severus sighs, pulling a chair around and sitting on it backwards, folding his arms over the back. The light overhead flickers and the children in front of him glance up at him nervously. Harry flicks his eyes to Regulus, who blows a lungful of smoke out the open window. "Who exactly are you? We know who Snape is, but...I've never seen you before."  
  
Regulus looks over them both with a frown tugging on his brows. "Regulus Black. And that," he waves towards Severus with his cigerette, "Is Severus Black. Not Snape. As of six months ago, at least."   
  
"Enough with introductions," Severus says, bluntly, "we'll get to that later. Right now, I want to know why you're here and who you are."  
  
***  
  
Neither have touched their mugs, which, if they're telling the truth about how they know him, kind of makes sense. "So let me get this straight. You--" he points at Harry, "Are Lily and James Potters boy." He looks at Hermione and frowns, "And you are one of his friends. And both of you are my _students_? And...and you used the time turner to try and save a bloody _hippogryff--"_  
  
"Don't forget the part about the surviving members of the merry marauders, darling."   
  
"Yes. You also wanted to...save my crazy brother in law." Snape drags a hand down over his face. "And in this future of yours I'm not only a crotchety middle aged man who terrorized you both, but I'm still a Snape?" He looks up at them, baffled. "You didn't even know Regulus existed?"  
  
"When...when did you and he...?"  
  
"Fifth year," Snape replies immediately, "He stopped Potter from outing me to the whole school."   
  
"Outing you? What does that mean?"   
  
Snape stares at her blankly, shifts awkwardly, and then says, "It means that when I was born the doctors said I was a baby girl, and they were wrong." He shrugs. "I don't know why this _matters_ though."  
  
"Oh," Hermione whispers.   
  
Harry swallows a bit thickly. "My dad nearly..." then he shakes himself. "We...we were there. Sort of. I told Regulus to do something. I didn't know it was Regulus, at the time, but..." Regulus straightens up, eyes widening.  
  
"That _was_ you, wasn't it? I wasn't paying much attention, given the...situation."  
  
Harry frowns. If Snape was in the second instance of time, _and_ this one, maybe he was in the first as well? But... "You were friends with mum as a kid? My mum and her sister?"  
  
"The little girls by the tree," Hermione says, eyes widening. "But...there were four."  
  
He and Regulus exchange a look. They seem to do that a lot, communicating silently.   
  
"That was my twin sister. She isn't around much anymore..." he shakes his head, "I'm not surprised about that one." He frowns, standing from his seat and turning to pace restlessly across the dingy, yellowed linoleum tiles. He twists the simple black wedding band on his ring finger as he paces, fidgetting. Harry and Hermione both watch him nervously, knowing what he's like in their present (his future), and also knowing that they just saw him assault someone. The other man, Regulus, Regulus Black, he shifts where he's leaning by the window.   
  
"Severus...what are we going to do with them? Can you fix that thing?"   
  
"Maybe...maybe. I'd need to make a few calls..." he sighs and shakes his fingers through his hair. "Let me _think_ , Reg."   
  
"You don't have much time before she comes for your report. This house isn't exactly big. We should've taken them to Grimmauld Place, or, hel, the Prince Manor."  
  
"I don't have full rights to the manor yet and your house is open to everyone from your crazy bitch of a cousin to Cissy and her husband! You really want to argue about this now?"   
  
"Sev--"   
  
The door bell rings, a cracked, whining sound like the device is broken, cutting off whatever else Regulus was going to say. Harry and Hermione look between each other and the hallway, frowning. "I'll stall her, take them upstairs."  
  
"Don't tell her anything!"   
  
"I know," Severus whispers. Taking off into the hall and leaving them with Sirius Blacks brother. Harry jolts in surprise as Regulus navigates around the cluttered, tiny kitchen, clapping his hands on their shoulders.   
  
"Come on, upstairs. You heard the man."   
  
"But--"   
  
"You're lucky you _exist_. If Severus had loved Lily as anything other than a sister I doubt you would. Come on, now, up you get."   
  
Regulus herds them up the rickety, narrow staircase, and Harry can't help but pause and look over his shoulder when he hears voices floating up the narrow stairwell and around the bend.  
  
"...How'd it go?"  
  
"...got away...managed to get a tracking spell wound around him beforehand, but..."  
  
"Damn...how could you just let him go? ...not like you, especially after what he did to those kids..."   
  
"...still doing arm checks at the ministry?"  
  
"...yeah, I got those forms for you, though--"  
  
Hermione tugging on his arm distracts him from his eavesdropping, and Harry frowns as he's forced to climb past the landing. His mothers voice, a bit deeper than he imagined, with the same accent Snape has but stronger, fades into an inaudible murmur as they gather into a room on the hall, one of two. An old bedroom, cramped and covered in an inch and a half of dust.   
  
Harry blanches when he realizes that the stains on those sheets are _blood_ , brown and crusty and aged, nausea choking him up.   
  
"What...what happened here?" Hermione whispers, similarly ashen, her deep brown skin gone gray at the sight of the blood.   
  
Regulus hesitates where he's shrunken himself against the inside of the room, hunched over. Now that he's looking at the man, he realizes that the ceilings up here are just a touch too low for him to stand comfortably. The house itself _is_ small, cramped and cluttered in a way that makes Harry claustrophobic. "You don't want to know."  
  
"What did he mean, arm checks?" He looks over them, and comes to the sudden understanding that they don't _know_. Shit. A chill runs through him. They're just _children._  
  
But then, Regulus was "just a child" last year. That didn't save him from the truth. That didn't absolve his actions, either.  
  
"Severus and I, we're death eaters," he says, rolling up his sleeve to show them the twisted skull-and-snake mark on his forearm. Hermione can't help the way she backs up, even the way Regulus' young face creases in pain and regret can't help the sudden reveal that these two men they trusted, they work for people who want her _dead_.  
  
Who want the woman down stairs _dead._ Who _killed_ the woman downstairs. "How could you?" She whispers, voice rife with horror and disgust.   
  
"We wanted to _change_ something!" Regulus snarls, looking away from both of them as if that will make it better. Make it _easier_. "Severus, his father nearly beat him to death, when he got drunk, which was often. His mother was half mad and my parents were no better. We wanted an _out_. We wanted to feel _safe._ "  
  
Then, he sighs shakily, and meets Hermione's eyes, chipped ice on gold flecked brown, "They recruited us young. I was fourteen, Severus was fifteen. By the time we were to be marked in seventh year, we'd already defected to Dumbledore. We feed the order information. We're on the right side, now."   
  
"...The dark lord recruits people individually, he lies to each of us, honeys the trap, so to speak. He tells Severus that blood status doesn't actually matter, that he's really out to protect halfbloods and muggleborns from their absuive muggle families. So that they'll never be hurt again." He sighs again, "Then, the dark lord will recruit Bellatrix Lestrange, and tell her that she'll finally have the chance to raze every filthy muggleborn off the face of the earth. Do you understand? He never tells the truth, but he makes good on just enough of his promises to trick us."   
  
"Why should I believe you?"  
  
"You don't have to," Regulus says, "You don't need to believe us, or trust us. You just have to let us get you home."   
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tell me if there’s anything I need to CW I can’t think of anything presently

Once Lily leaves, everything blurs together a bit. Harry and Hermione are given a choice; they’re told that neither Severus nor Regulus will be keeping them hostage, or anything else so drastic—that they are free to leave if and as they wish. They are _also_ told that the time turner will require time to fix, and while they could go to someone else, it would be unadvisable given how much of their timeline they’d already mucked up.

It hadn’t been as hard of a choice as Harry would’ve imagined, dark marks or no. He and Hermione were loathe to trust them, but besides finding a way to Hogwarts to find Dumbledore, what could they do?

The next few hours were spent cleaning the house—given that they were only staying there because of them, Harry and Hermione were enlisted to help. Ordered. That may be a better word to use. Although it’s hard to tell with how cut and dry Snape is, or how Regulus speaks with the same ingrained authority that Sirius does. Snape seemed startled that Harry was so willing to do so, apparently having expected a fight, or even flat out refusal. Upon learning that Harry wasn’t the most proficient with cleaning spells beyond the most basic of basics, the bastard had even sat down and _taught_ him. Actually _taught!_ Without any of the sharp, venomous derisions he used in the present, as well! He _was_ a bit short with him, but not maliciously.

They cleaned out the dust, mildew, and ridded the place of the acrid smell of mothballs and cigarette smoke, which must have seeped into the bloody walls, with how pervasive it had been. Boxes of junk were shrunk and stacked away, papers were filed into drawers or folders on shelves—the map stayed up, and the radio and its parts were neatly packed into a box.

Regulus had taken out a penknife and carved a rune into the wooden frame of the couch from underneath, which somehow transformed it into a plush looking pull-out couch. Hermione had ranted for fifteen minutes about the genius of semi-permanent transfiguration using ancient runes, something she’d only heard tell of done with potion regiments. The kitchen was made semi-serviceable, though there had been a strange magical fungi growing under the sink that Snape _insisted_ on taking a sample of, ignoring any and all of Hermione’s concerns when he proceeded to _touch it with his bare hands_. “Plants like me,” was his only response, deathly serious. She didn’t know whether to laugh or put her face in her hands.

It was an odd experience, and reminded Harry faintly of his detentions with the dour Professor, except that Snape was an eccentric eighteen year old newlywed. Which. Well. Harry can’t help the slowly creeping realization that he’s started considering Snape as a _person_ rather than an...antagonist? A mean professor. Rather than one layer, the one Harry interacted with, the only one he ever saw, he’s seeing a multi-faceted, living, breathing _person_ , one with a laugh that sounds like crushed gravel and velvet, whose sense of humor is grim and strange and who hums _Queen_ songs as he cleans. It’s...odd. He isn’t sure how to equate the cruel, dour faced bastard he knew in his timeline with this man, who is still short and acerbic but no longer cruel, as far as he can tell.

The _problem_ came when it was time to clean upstairs, which consisted of two bedrooms and a bathroom (as well as the bloody sheets, which neither child has gotten an explanation for as of yet). Snape flat out refused to go upstairs, in fact he refused to even mount the _landing_ to the stairs. “Surely it would not take four people to sort out two bedrooms,” he’d reasoned, warily eyeing the stairwell as he shrugged into his leather jacket, “I, will go fetch groceries. The fridge is empty.”

Regulus had stomped down the stairs and caught Snape’s arm, soundly kissing him on the mouth—he had to lean down quite a bit to do so—before breaking away and saying, “Be safe?”

Snape had grinned crookedly, flashing stained, crooked teeth (his canines were odd, nearly fangs, and stood out from his other teeth), and said, rather demurely, “Always.” Harry swears he damn near _strutted_ past, and winked at Regulus on the way out the door, but he doesn’t really want to think about...any of that.

“Wear a damn helmet!” Regulus called out belatedly, getting flipped off through the nearly closed door for his trouble. He sighed as the door slams shut, followed by the muffled growl of a motorbike starting up.

“He _drives_?” Hermione asks, blinking in surprise.

“Yes, he likes it. I don’t understand it, but then, I don’t understand most muggle things.” Regulus led them up the stairs, and after that, told them to pick a room and get to it. He took the one with the bloody sheets.

When Snape got back it was nearly eight o’clock, and he kicked the door open, arms laden with both groceries _and_ take-out. They had gotten done cleaning about an hour ago, and Hermione had taken to teaching both Regulus and Harry how to play monopoly, though the board was missing a few pieces (including the dice, though Reg just transfigured a few buttons into suitable ones) and the instruction manual was so old it was entirely yellow and falling apart at the seams. Everyone looked up when Snape clambered through the door and made a bee-line for the kitchen. “You know, the point of buying groceries is to _cook,_ right?”

“Shut up,” Snape sneers, “Unless you don’t want this?” He asks, waving a box of Chinese take out in the air. Regulus reaches for it and Snape puts it high over his head, t-shirt and jacket riding up as he does so, only to scowl as Regulus takes it anyways, being much taller than him.

“Oh, don’t look so sour,” Regulus laughs, laying his free hand on Snape’s shoulder and pressing a quick kiss to his cheek.

“I always look sour,” Snape rumbles.

“Well, good thing I have a taste for sour things,” Regulus says, grinning cheekily.

“Eat your Chinese,” Severus tells him sharply, cheeks reddened as he turns back to the counter to sort out the rest of the bags, “Before I change my mind and poison it.” Regulus’ hand twitches at his side, and Severus stiffens, “Do not _dare!”_

“Alright, alright!” Regulus laughs, “Hate when you do that. No fun.”

“It’s saved you plenty of embarrassment on a _multitude_ of occasions,” Severus mutters, then looks to both of the children sitting in his living room, eyes skating mildly over the monopoly board. He smirks and says, “Don’t let Regulus bank next time, he cheats.” Regulus cries out in indignant denial, much to Severus’ amusement. Then, he says, “Come here, I didn’t know what you’d want so I guessed.” He gestures to two more containers and then snags the third off the counter with a pair of chopsticks. “Forks are in the drawer beside the sink if you don’t want to do it the right way.”

Hermione waggles her eyebrows at Harry as she scoops up a pair of chopsticks, laughing when he goes for a fork.

“Shut up,” Harry laughs.

“Come on, at least try it. I’ll teach you.”

“Fine.”

***

Harry jolts in bed, half-asleep and half blind, groping for his glasses. The room is unfamiliar, and the sky is still nearly black outside the grimy windows. He finds his glasses on the floor beside the bed, kicking his legs out of tangled black sheets with a groan. Ruffling his hand through his hair, he squints around in the dark—and it all comes back to him as the Slytherin banner hanging on the wall and the ruts in the shaggy black carpet come into focus through his glasses. _Snape’s old room_ , he thinks, falling back on the bed for a moment to stare up at the black-flecked ceiling. The springs shriek in protest, apparently the cushioning charm Snape set down didn’t affect _them_. This is all so surreal. Sure, Harry knew logically that Snape probably was a person under all of that spite and hatefulness, but having to _see_ it? In person? He isn’t sure what to think, and from his short chat with Hermione last night before they shut themselves in their rooms, Hermione’s just as conflicted. Neither of them are sure they can trust either of the men downstairs...but what choice do they have?

Harry sighs, rolling his head to the side to stare out the window for a moment. An old plastic wall clock ticks irritatingly, broadcasting the time as 6:04. Harry knows well enough by now that once he’s awake like this there’s no going back to sleep, so he rolls out of bed with the intention of doing...something. He doesn’t just want to laze around like a slug, and the clock is driving him insane.

He pushes the door open hesitantly, gratified when the hinges don’t shriek, and pads out into the narrow, low-ceilinged hallway. Hermione’s door is still shut, and he spares it a glance before turning towards the stairwell. While it’d be good to get some time to speak with her alone before the adults wake up, Harry doesn’t exactly want to know what Snape would do if he caught him sneaking into her room.

The stairs, unfortunately, aren’t as kind as the hinges on the bedroom door. Every single one of them must creak on the way down. Nonetheless Harry creeps down the rickety stairwell, holding tightly to the bannister and hoping like hell that both of the people sleeping on the couch are heavy sleepers. Abruptly, Harry realizes that this is what _normal_ teenagers do; they sneak downstairs while their parents are asleep and hate the creaky stairs with their whole being. They debate waking up a sibling or leaving them asleep when they wake up too early. Of course, Snape and Black aren’t his parents, and Hermione isn’t his sister, but Harry feels a deep, gouging ache in his chest at the thought that he’ll never have the opportunity to do _normal_ kid things, and never has. He’ll never sit down with James and Lily Potter as a sister teaches him how to use chopsticks, laughing until his stomach hurts as dad flips the board in frustration because he’s a sore loser. He’ll never see Lily Potter throw her arms around his father with a triumphant laugh as she beats him at a muggle game, and yet he somehow managed to get a night of that with _Snape_ of all people! The cast is different but the script is the same, and Harry feels familiar anger well up inside at how _unfair_ that is.

What did he ever do to deserve this? Why couldn’t he have a _family_? The Dursley’s might have similar nights but never with him. The closest Harry had ever gotten to a nuclear family night before last night was watching them through the slot in the cupboard door. He shuffles towards the doorway to the living room, blood still boiling.

Harry doesn’t have anymore time to be angry as something whiffs past his face and embeds itself in the doorframe by his head with a dull twang—his heart leaps in his chest and he makes a noise that he will later deny was a squeak, jolting out of his skin. Slowly he turns his head and his eyes blow wide as he takes in the bone-hilted, black bladed dagger stuck in the wall by his face. Green-glowing runes are engraved in the blade, the magic spitting sparks for a moment before dying down. Harry gulps and looks towards the couch, where Snape and Regulus are still half-tangled up on the futon. Snape had flat-out refused to go upstairs, insisting he and his husband take the couch instead. Harry hadn’t argued. Now, Snape’s scarred, freckled hand is hanging over the bed, but the rise and fall of his chest says he’s awake, and—

Harry pauses, freezing in place and blinking slowly as if that will fix what he’s seeing. Snape’s wearing Pjs, a loose black band tee and grey joggers, but his chest is _weird_. It takes Harry a moment to process what exactly he’s seeing and when he does he reddens to the roots of his hair and slaps his hand over his eyes, skewing his glasses. _Oh._ _Oh he is going to have **nightmares** about this. **Gross.**_

“Oh, it’s just you,” Severus’ voice is gravelly with sleep, and Harry hears sheets shifting. “What are you...? What _time_ is it?” Harry hesitantly takes his hand away from his face to see Snape squinting at him from the pull-out bed.

“Six a.m.,” Harry whispers, looking between Snape and the knife in the wall.

Snape stares at him for a moment before following his line of sight to the knife. “I meant to miss,” he mumbles, and then turns over and buries his face in Regulus’ shoulder, muttering something about insane time traveling teenagers waking him up at ridiculous hours. Harry flounders for a moment, unsure of what to do with himself now. Snape didn’t seem to bothered by him walking around the house alone. Hesitantly, he wraps his hand around the black leather grip of the knife and tugs. The wood creaks, but the blade is _really_ stuck in there. Harry doesn’t want to think about what that would’ve done if it’d gone into him instead of the doorframe.

He ruffles a hand through his already messy hair, huffs an overwhelmed sigh, and pads through the living room into the kitchen, before slinking out the door to the cramped garden nestled behind the house. It’s chill, given how early in the spring it is as well as how early in the morning, but Harry takes a moment to curl his toes in the damp grass nonetheless. He peers at the chipped brown fence and the sparse tree line beyond, the fence being too tall for him to actually see over. The gurgling of a creek and the odd shriek of early-rising birds assaults his ears, as well as the groaning rev of the neighbors car, likely being warmed up for work. It’s...peaceful. He dares not interfere with the garden, which is wild and overgrown, probably left in disrepair for years; he gives the plants a wide berth mainly because he can’t tell whether or not they’re magical. Knowing Snape, some of them are likely deadly despite their innocuous appearance.

He doesn’t know how long he stays out there, but eventually the hinges on the door leading back inside creak and Hermione steps out. Her hair is even more wild than usual, brown curls sticking up every which way and frothing around her soft brown face. She gives a soft hello and settles herself on the concrete step that leads into the grass—far too small to be considered a porch, but large enough to sit comfortably on. The sun has risen, and Harry plops down beside her on the step, shoulders brushing. “What time is it?”

“About eight thirty. No-one else is awake yet.” He nods, unsure of what else to say.

After a time he settles on, “Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m...dealing. It’s weird, isn’t it?” She asks, smoothing her hands over the polka-dotted pajama pants Snape had procured for her when he went shopping last night. Harry laughs ruefully at the question.

“Hasn’t Snape always been a grudgingly nice queer bloke with a motorcycle?” He asks, words dripping with sarcasm. She tries and fails to stifle her laughter, slapping him on the arm.

“You’re _awful,_ ” she says, though she sounds downright mirthful. Then she pauses, “Oh. Harry, has Snape _always_ been—?”

“No!” He cries, disbelieving. “I mean, yes! Maybe? I don’t...It would make sense! I doubt anything we did could’ve made him _gay_. People’re just. Born like that, right?”

“Oh my gods,” Hermione laughs. “I...That’s good though, right? I don’t think the wizarding world is as bad as the muggle one, is it? If a school like Hogwarts has a bent professor, they can’t be.”

“I dunno,” Harry says, rubbing the back of his neck. “It never really came up, did it? I mean, they’re _married_. They couldn’t do that in the muggle world.”

“I can’t believe I’m saying this but I think I’m going to be asking Professor Snape about queer history,” Hermione says, eyes lighting up at the possibilities of learning new things. Harry can already see her mocking up her questions. In fact, she seems oddly enthusiastic about it, as if the mere prospect of the wizarding world accepting queer people has opened new opportunities for _her_. Hermione’s always excited by history, but she seems even more excited than usual about this, which is saying something.

“Hermione...are you...?”

“Huh? Oh! Oh, goodness,” she rubs her fingers through her coiled hair, mussing it, and flushes slightly. “I dunno.”

“You don’t _know_?”

She throws her hands up in the air in frustration. “I just! I suppose I never considered it. But...I guess I _have..._ liked girls, before. Isn’t that normal, though?”

“Hermione!” Harry laughs, shaking his head. “Sure it’s _normal_ , but I don’t think it’s very straight of you.”

“Oh, goodness,” she says, but she doesn’t sound upset, more embarrassed that she hadn’t put two and two together, really. Harry fidgets, glad to have helped Hermione with this revelation, but inevitably finding himself growing anxious the longer they’re sitting there in silence. He wants to _do_ something—the reprieve has been nice, but eventually the quiet is replaced by whirring thoughts, of his lack of family (cast recently into sharp relief by their current situation), of their being trapped in the eighties, of Snape’s apparent personhood, and he wants to quell them, at least for now. It’s too much to process.

“Hey, do you know how to cook?”

“I know a bit, yeah,” Hermione says, squinting at him curiously. “Why?”

“Well...I don’t know, it was a stupid idea.” He shakes his head.

“You want to cook? Come on, let’s make breakfast,” Hermione bounces up to her feet, and Harry sheepishly follows her, embarrassed that he suggested it but also unable to actually refuse when she’s willing to indulge his restlessness so readily.

Harry has taken to making mental note of anything that might help them adjust to a future they know will likely be changed beyond reconciliation, as well as anything that might help him understand the past. He’s still reeling from his fathers cruelty, for one, and the apparent friendship still thriving between Snape and his mother.

Unfortunately for him, Snape isn’t exactly a morning person, nor nearly so forthright as he’d been expecting giving their earlier conversations. He and Regulus rise at about nine fifteen, startled to find an average four-person breakfast being laid out. Snape had admonished them both for cooking—saying they should leave the home-bodying to the adults—but had grudgingly accepted a plate. He and Hermione watched Regulus wolf down his breakfast and floo to who-knows where, only to come back straightening the collar of some truly expensive looking dress-robes. Snape, on the other hand, picked at his food for a good fifteen minutes, finishing two cups of extremely bitter, too-strong tea, all while seeming still half asleep and unwilling to speak to anyone. On his third cup he seemed to actually wake up, getting ready for the day with a brusque efficiency that Harry and Hermione actually recognize, and dressed in clothing that they’d actually expect of their dour professor; a dark green shirt, black waistcoat and slacks, and a sharply cut tweed coat over it all. Harry doesn’t think he’s actually seen Snape without that frock coat buttoned all the way to the collar until the other day, but the figure he cuts in the black coat and nearly all black clothing is similar enough to fit the picture of uptight and dour professor.

The first time he actually gives them a moments attention that morning is only after he’s seen Regulus off on his way to work. “Given that even I cannot in good conscience leave two minors alone in my house all day, you’ll be coming with me,” he tells them, deep voice brooking no argument. Then, he sets down two sets of clothes he’d seemingly pulled from thin air. “Upstairs. Put these on and make yourselves semi presentable.”

“Sir?”

“ _Upstairs_ ,” he snaps, jolting them both into action.

***

Harry is tugging at the uncomfortable collar of a white button up for what must be the fiftieth time as they walk down an unknown sidewalk in an unknown part of London when Snape finally chooses to speak again. “Stop _fidgeting_ ,” he growls, shooting Harry a withering look. _This_ is more like the Snape he’s come to know and loathe, he thinks, sharing an irritated glance with Hermione, who shrugs as if to say “what can you do?”

“I can’t, it’s _itchy_ ,” Harry replies, glaring at Snape’s prominent shoulder blades, which seem to be emphasized by the deceptively well-made coat. Harry, who has had nothing to do but stare at Snape’s back for the entirety of a very mind-numbing half hour walk (and why don’t they just use _magic_ ), has noticed that the coat is far more worn-down than it appears from a distance, reminding him of some of Ron’s nicer clothes. The dark grey leather patches on the elbows are probably hand-sewn, and the thing is longer than it probably should be, made for someone taller than Snape is but of similar width. At least a second generation hand-me down. Hermione told him, upstairs and after they’d both changed into the new clothes, that they were likely recently transfigured to fit them—and that they’d been transfigured far more than once, by the tell-tale shimmery threads at the seams.

“I’m sorry I didn’t have higher thread count on hand, your _highness,”_ he sneers, “Not all of us have the privilege of wallowing in luxury from birth onwards.” Harry almost doesn’t hear it, but his ears catch the faint edges of the words _just like his bloody father_ muttered under Snape’s breath.

“I _didn’t_ grow up in luxury,” Harry spits, anger welling back to the surface. Even having seen Snape’s derelict house in his shambling neighborhood, the obviously second and third hand clothing, and the obvious fact that Snape is not and never was very wealthy at all, hasn’t exstinguished the indignation Harry feels whenever Snape assumes he’s been living in a damn palace his whole life.

But Snape pauses midstep, faltering, and turns around to squint at him.

Harry, who hadn’t told Snape his whole story, realizes his mistake almost immediately. He’d figured telling Snape about his parents deaths and Voldemort wasn’t the best course of action, given they hadn’t even known what side he was on at the time. And now, knowing about Snape’s friendship with Lily, it seems especially ill advised.

“Has something happened to the Potter fortune in the next decade?” he asks, incredulous. “They have a bloody manor in the countryside, Lily’s living in high-end suburbia last I checked. How exactly _haven’t_ you grown up getting everything handed to you?” Harry, whose never even heard of such a manor, blinks astonishedly at Snape. The mans boots scrape noisily against the concrete sidewalk as he shifts his weight to really look at him. “In what world would Lily and James Potter not dote on their son?” He asks, now sounding genuinely confused more than venomous.

“How would you know so much about my father anyways?” Harry snaps back, anger still simmering despite the way Snape’s has seemed to gutter out. “It isn’t like you get on!” A moment after the words spill from his lips he knows it’s the wrong thing to say, especially after what he’s seen of their shared animosity. Snape’s faintly freckled, beige skin grows pale with anger at his tone and the _accusation_ in it, as if, of all things, Harry assumes this rivalry, this _abuse_ he’s suffered at said mans hands was _his fault_.

“I _know_ because he spent every bloody day of our schooling trying his damndest to show the world how much _better_ he was than everyone! James Potter flaunts his wealth and status more readily than his quidditch stardom and gryffindorish lack of brains! He beat me bloody for _existing_ , the impoverished Slytherin half-blood who was _delusional_ enough to _dare_ be friends with a gryffindor bully’s self-proclaimed _prize!_ ” Snape bellows, alarming several people on the street around them by the sheer volume of his bass-y baritone. He takes an unconscious step back as he realizes he had lost his temper, and looks around them at the gawping bystanders. Harry shrinks in on himself, thoroughly chastised. He doesn’t quite know where the anger had come from, but it’s left him just as rapidly, leaving a vague hollowness behind. It doesn’t feel satisfying to prod Snape anymore. Not at all. 

The muggles around them suddenly return to their business as if nothing was amiss in the first place, in an unnaturally uniform fashion, to Harry’s shock. “What did you _do_?” Hermione asks, awed and a bit concerned. “You didn’t...you _can’t_ obliviate that many people without a wand or a verbal spell!”

“Good eye,” Snape says, words oozing sarcasm. “Shall I fetch you a medal for stating the obvious, Ms. Granger?”

“I...” She flushes, and silently amends that maybe Snape _hasn’t_ changed all that much.

As he turns his back on them and resumes walking, he says, matter of factly, “Dumbledore and the Dark Lord aren’t the only legilimens on the face of the earth, Ms. Granger. I’m sure you can reckon what I’ve done if you put that _brilliant_ mind of yours to actual work, rather than regurgitating the text books you’ve no doubt read twice.”

“How do you know about that?” She blurts out, hurrying to match his stride. Harry does the same, intrigued. Dumbledore is a Legilimens? Dumbledore _and_ Voldemort are mind readers?

...and Snape is one, too?

“But...Legilimency is just reading someones mind, and you need eye contact! It would still be impossible to edit their memories, especially so quickly!”

Severus chuckles, and says, “Once again, should I commend you for stating fact?”

Hermione makes a frustrated noise but says no more. Harry can see the wheels turning, though, and he knows how Hermione gets when confronted with a puzzle. She likely won’t give up until she’s found an answer.

Eventually, they come to a stop in front of a stately but aged building, wedged firmly between two townhouses in a suburban neighborhood. The air crackles faintly with ozone—a byproduct of strong, strong wards—and while the place seems rather mundane, fitting perfectly into the muggle street, both Harry and Hermione watch as a sign wavers into existence above the door. “Henry & Mudges...An attorney’s office?” Hermione asks, bewildered, “Why not just use their floo, then? Why walk?”

Severus casts them both withering looks, and then turns and hesitates at the door, hand curling into a fist as he snatches it away from the knocker, as if realizing it’s cursed. He raps his fist harshly against the heavy wood instead, to the annoyance of the lion that’s holding the iron knocker in its jaws.

A stocky looking man in his early fifties answers it, graying brown hair slicked back haphazardly and wearing a truly awful maroon set of robes. He greets Severus in a grandfatherly fashion, all smiles, and ushers them all inside without a word of question as to why two children are tagging along with him. “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice, Henry,” Snape says, though the pleasantries sound stiff and flat. Henry doesn’t seem to notice in the slightest.

“Oh, it’s no trouble at all, Mr. Black! I owe you a great deal indeed for what you did for my wife, after all!”

Harry blinks, startled by the demure and almost sheepish look that comes over Snape’s face. “That was mainly Lily, as you well know.”

“Oh, but she couldn’t have done it without you. Come, sit, sit! Who are your friends? A bit young, aren’t they?”

“Cousins,” Severus says, smoothly, “come to stay with me while their parents are indisposed.”

Henry’s eyes widen, and he looks from Snape to them and back again, “My, the Prince family is bigger than I thought!” There’s a cheerfulness there, as if Snape having two offshoot cousins and a supposed aunt or uncle is a miracle, or something.

“Quite,” Severus demures, giving them a distracted glance before saying, “But we didn’t come for small talk, did we, Henry?”

“Oh, always so straight to the point, Mr. Black. Yes, indeed you didn’t.” He looks to Harry and Hermione with an indulgent smile, “Now, you two wait out here, won’t be but a moment.” Then, his attention turns back to Severus, and he actually _touches his arm_ , in that same grandfatherly fashion as before. Snape looks severely uncomfortable with the gesture, and he doesn’t exactly hide it, but Henry either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. “In here then, you know how this works? Bit of blood, a signature...you do have your paperwork with you, yes?” Henry says, holding a door on the hall open. Inside is a mundane but tastefully appointed room, a large, heavy wooden table and chairs set in the middle.

Snape clears his throat awkwardly and produces a thin, ragged leather folio from under his arm, which Henry takes, ushering him into the room. Snape sends them one last look, clearly a _Don’t make fools of yourselves,_ by Harry’s reckoning. They’ve seen that look often enough, after all.

Harry and Hermione settle themselves onto the bench against the wall of the hallway, Harry bouncing his knee impatiently while Hermione picks at a loose thread on her shirt. “What did he mean, blood?” Harry asks, to break the seemingly opressive silence in the hall. There’s a slight murmur from behind the heavy oak door, but nothing more. Hermione frowns, a familiar look of concentration on her face—trying to remember something she read, most likely.

“Oh!” She says, after a moment, “You remember what he said the other day? That he didn’t have full rights to his estate? I read this a long time ago, back in first year, but sometimes the older, more archaic wizarding families don’t sign agreements in ink. The document that renews the wards for houses like the Blacks or the Malfoy’s are signed in blood.”

Harry pales, “But why would they do that?”

Hermione shrugs, “I don’t know why purebloods do half the things they do, Harry.”


End file.
